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“I’m not gullible.”

“And I’m not lying.”

She bursts into mollified chuckles, the humor rinsing away her disappointment. “That’s because Faeries can’t lie,” she scolds.

“Oh? And here, I’d forgotten.”

“Very well. I suppose I can be Juniper’s soldier then. I’ll guard the tent and maybe hear a tale or two.”

I bump her chin with my knuckles. “Brilliant idea, luv.”

As I stride away, my hooves accelerate. My longbow and quiver shudder against my back, the archery a familiar ally in a world where everything has turned upside down.

Funny. Once in this dark forest, I challenged a mortal to win an impossible hunt.

Now I’m the one playing a game. Now I’m the one who has to face the wild and hunt something that just might be unhuntable.

17

Sylvan’s hooves pound into the earth beneath us, debris snapping under her weight. The woodland spirals past in a montage, patchworks of color prickling the edges of my vision.

Several dozen paces to my left, Cypress gallops. My ears pick up on the tempo of his limbs, which carries additional weight.

Slinging my head in his direction, I discern a sheet of dark hair threaded with yellow petals whipping through the creepers. My least favorite nymph sits astride the centaur, an arrangement neither of them had been thrilled about. Still, it was better than expanding this gang to include an animal for Foxglove to ride. And if need be, say if they reach their breaking points and can’t stand one another anymore, she’s skilled at moving swiftly on foot.

Each of us knows how to cover ground while avoiding exposure, our combined pace light and agile. Regardless, a team clustered together could make too much noise, cause more commotion, and attract unwanted attention. Keeping a set amount of distance is essential with Solitaries, who are used to watching from the outskirts. If any Fae makes a perfect spy, it’s one that has spent their immortal life cloistered.

We ride straight, then splinter farther apart milliseconds before breaching enemy lines.

Red foxes blink from the crevices. Trees with barbed trunks and spiked leaves flicker by, and a passel of boars sprints from our path. With every league we consume, disturbing new signs turn up, from the rotted wood of a fallen trunk to the dulling green of the canopies.

We avoid the Fae homes and shops nesting in the recesses. I lean forward as Sylvan lances through the area. The weald is quieter here. It’s as though the environment has lost its ability to exhale.

It’s also murkier despite the midmorning hour. Half the candles are nothing but fizzles, either snuffed by residents or extinguished by natural causes. It’s hard to guess which.

A shadow passes overhead, a silhouette of wings flaring across the ground. My mouth slants at my brother’s ability to flit through the wild without clipping so much as a single leaf. And all while securing Lark in his arms.

Cerulean’s father seems to have vanished, probably on his own unexpected mission. He hadn’t responded to Cerulean’s last call before we rode out. His silence is unusual, but then, nothing has been normal lately. In war times, everything gets skewed.

Anyway, I doubt the owl would be thrilled to know what his son’s about to do without him there, protective avian that he is. Must be nice to have a parent who reacts that way.

South of The Passel of Boars, a small avenue exists wedged between The Bonfire Glade and The Seeds that Give. That’s the crack we need to slip through.

While nearing our first destination, my eyes scan the route ahead and catch on a thread flashing like tinsel between the trunks. I pull back, using my limbs to alert Sylvan. She skids to a standstill as I lift my arm in a halting motion, knowing everyone can see it.

The barest sliver appears, a single filament as thin as a fiber and invisible to the most perceptive of woodland dwellers. But it’s not invisible to a hunter. The wiry strand extends inches from the deer’s hooves and knits through the mesh of undergrowth.

Evidently, our foes have taken precautions against an invasion. Crafty, but my traitorous kin should know better. Spending part of one’s youth with their calf punctured by the iron teeth of a human trap will make a Fae more sensitive to spotting bait.

A mirthless snigger puffs from my lips. Me, trespassing in my own realm. Sure enough, it’s come to that.

Ground beetles hobble across the grass. The loom of a spider’s web stretches like elastic across a branch. A ringed tail slips between the vegetation.

The weave is too complex for Sylvan to shrink and slip beneath, especially with her antlers. The fauna can grow small, but not to the size of a thimble. Everything, from nature to magic, has its cutoff point.

I jump off Sylvan’s back and guide her through, my hooves stepping over each thread. From the sideline, I catch Cypress and Foxglove doing the same, the nymph having dismounted. Though, I’m not sure how my brother’s reacting, but I can only guess he and his mate are circuiting, scouting the perimeter for watchers or signs of an impending attack.

Sweat coats my nape. One thing I can’t disguise is my hair, the red visible from a good distance and impossible to shield with a hood, on account of the rack sitting on my head. Better not dwell on that.